Chapter Text
When Egg enters the room, his father, Maekar, is sitting by the bed on a wooden chair next to the fireplace. He's holding his uncle Baelor's hands in his own, staring at the dried fingers. The maester is dressing the wound on Baelor's head—Egg had heard the man's skull was cracked, and he'd been unconscious since collapsing in Ser Duncan's arms, now that the sun had set. Without turning his head, Maekar asked in a hoarse voice, "How's your brother?"
"He has a fever, but he'll live... they cleaned the wound on his leg..." Egg answered with his head hanging low. He could feel his cousin Valarr's stare on his face. Valarr hadn't left his father's bedside since the seven-man duel had ended.
"Then why are you here? Your uncle needs quiet." There was a hint of reproach in Maekar's voice.
Egg's small fingers twisted together. Like he was tasting the words he wanted to say before speaking them. "Ser Duncan's wounded too... someone should see to his wounds."
Egg saw his father's shoulders stiffen from behind. He turned slowly, his voice lower than a shout but still sharp-edged enough to cut. "Your elder brother Aerion's in bed with deep wounds... Your uncle's unconscious and I don't even know if he'll last till morning, and you..."
He stood and walked toward Egg. "...are worried about some hedge knight?"
Years had passed since Egg had last seen his father this angry and this serious at the same time, but he held his ground and didn't step back. "Ser Duncan's a knight. He fought honorably in the duel. If he dies..."
Maekar finished his son's sentence, his voice slightly louder than before. "If he dies, that's one less hedge knight."
Maekar grabbed the boy's wrist so hard it hurt, shoved him out the door, and slammed it shut behind him.
---
Maekar sent the boy away, so the boy found a new destination
The stone steps went down and down. Egg took each step carefully, his hand against the damp wall to keep from slipping. The torches burned dim, their thick smoke carrying the smell of must and rot all the way down the corridor.
Ashford Castle's dungeon wasn't a place for men. It was for storing wine and grain, maybe for imprisoning those no one was meant to see again.
Egg stopped in front of a wooden door reinforced with iron bars. The lock was big, but there was no guard. Maybe his father thought a hedge knight wasn't worth a guard. Maybe he'd sent the guard elsewhere.
Egg looked through the bars.
Duncan sat on the ground, his back against the wall, his knees drawn up—if a man that big could draw up his knees. The wound on his head was bound with a piece of his own clothing. The cloth was bloody, dried and black.
When he heard footsteps, he looked up. Seeing Egg, his thick eyebrows rose. "Egg? What are you doing here this time of night?"
Egg reached through the bars into the cell. He had a small bag in his hand. "I brought you food... and some medicine."
Duncan's gaze moved between the boy's face and the bag, but he didn't reach for it. "Not hungry."
Egg lowered his hand and placed the bag inside the cell on the stone floor. His gaze fixed on Duncan... this giant of a man who looked even bigger in this small cell. The wound near his eye was deep, obvious even from this distance.
An ugly silence settled, like after that bloody fight neither of them had anything to say.
"Didn't expect to see you again... when I heard your footsteps, I thought maybe the infection in my eye was making me see things." The older man broke the silence with a voice that still sounded unsure if he was hallucinating or not.
The boy sat on the cold ground and admitted simply, "I didn't think I'd be able to see you either... Father was furious."
And again the ugly silence.
"How are they...? Lord Baelor and your brother, I mean." Duncan asked, dragging his injured body toward the bars.
"Aerion's fine, just a little fever, but Uncle..." Egg paused briefly, pulling his gaze away from Duncan's battered face. "...his skull's cracked, like you saw... he hasn't woken yet."
This time Duncan had nothing to say, so Egg continued. "Father blames you... he wants to kill you. He's angry, so he's not thinking straight."
Duncan cut him off. "Your father's right... it was my foolishness, wanting to win at any cost."
Egg leaned forward, pressing his face against the bars. "No! It's Aerion's fault..."
The knight ignored him. "Two men are dead, boy! Their blood is on my hands."
Egg kept repeating himself. "You acted like a knight, same as the ones who fought with you. If anyone's to blame, it's Aerion!"
Duncan smiled sadly, fixing his gaze on the boy's frustrated, frowning face through his painful, swollen eyelids. "Aerion's paying for it too. If I'm locked up down here for a few days, your brother with all those wounds is stuck in his bed for weeks at least!"
The knight's tone was funny, maybe that's why it made Egg laugh, or maybe just imagining Aerion whining about being bored made Egg feel better. He murmured in a less choked voice, "You should've seen how he screamed like a girl while they were dressing his leg wounds!"
Egg and Duncan laughed together because screaming really didn't suit Aerion's personality. "I really wanted to tell him, 'Now you're the one crying like a girl, big brother, and the sword went right past your balls,' but that wouldn't have been honorable." Egg finished his sentence with more confidence and met the big man's surprised look.
"Since when did you get so honorable, little knight?" Duncan was impressed but still spoke with a smirk.
Only a faint smile remained on Egg's lips from his laughter. "I promise I won't let you die here in this prison."
"You'd rather your knight die fighting, wouldn't you?" Duncan teased him again.
Egg answered without hesitation. "Yeah, you should've died in the fight when you had the chance, ser!"
---
Morning was creeping through the heavy curtains of Baelor's room. A gray light covered the entire room—even the sunrise couldn't fight the shadow of death that had seeped into the castle.
Valarr sat by his father's bed. Baelor's wounds were clean now, no trace of dried blood on his forehead, and his clothes had been changed. Maekar had done it all. Himself. With his own hands. He hadn't let anyone even get close to his brother. Valarr understood his uncle's guilt. When he'd asked Maekar to go to his room, change out of his battle clothes, and rest a little, he'd seen the terror in the man's eyes—knew he was afraid to leave Baelor's side, afraid to miss his brother's last moments if they came.
In a way, he hated his uncle for what had happened to his father, but he knew if his father could hear his son's thoughts right now, if he could open his eyes, he'd tell him that in the fighting field anyone could get hurt, and he shouldn't take it personally. He should put the good of the realm and their house above his personal feelings—that was his duty as heir.
Valarr looked at his father's hands. Those hands that once swung a sword so fiercely lords would stare in awe on the battlefield. Now they lay still on his chest, like they belonged to someone else.
Maybe hate was too heavy a word to describe his feelings... but there was something—a small knot, somewhere deep in his heart—that stirred every time he looked at his father. Maekar had done this. Accidentally, unintentionally, but he'd done it. His hands had struck the blow. The same hands that had cleaned Baelor's wounds all night.
Just then, the sound of the wooden door opening temporarily ended Valarr's conflicting thoughts. His uncle entered, looking slightly more put together, and went straight to Baelor.
"How is he?..."
Valarr was sure he hadn't slept even an hour. His eyes were still red and bloodshot—but at least his muddy, bloody clothes were gone—and his voice was choked and thick from crying.
"He hasn't had time to change much in the two hours you were gone." Valarr answered in a measured tone, watching his uncle gently stroke Baelor's salt-and-pepper hair.
There was an ugly wound on the back of Baelor's head that Maekar had stared at all night, cleaned, and still wasn't used to. They'd cut his soft hair short in that area, and now ignoring the wound he'd given his brother seemed impossible.
He didn't know if he was being overly emotional or if the anger he felt toward himself was natural. He ignored the wooden chair and knelt by his brother's bed. He took Baelor's hand in his and pressed it to his forehead out of habit.
His fingers slid over the skin. He paused for a moment. Then his face changed. His eyebrows drew together. His eyes narrowed. "Valarr... his body's too cold."
Valarr shot up immediately. He leaned over his father. Placed his hand on his forehead. He was right. Colder than before. Not the cold of death, but close.
Maekar turned his head to the nurse dozing on a stool in the corner of the room. His voice cut through the room like a whip. "Nurse! Did you give him his medicine?"
The nurse was a middle-aged woman, had worked in this castle for years, seen plenty of dead men. But none of the family's sick had tormented her as much as Lord Baelor's brother in a single night. Maekar's voice startled her. The stool wobbled, nearly tipping. She stood, clasping her hands in front of her chest as if trying to make herself smaller. "My prince... we can't give him anything boiled until he regains consciousness."
The words stumbled out of her mouth. "The maester said... the maester said we must be patient. He'll wake today." Her eyes were fixed on the ground.
Maekar stood. Took a step toward her. His voice rose—not a shout, but still loud. "What if he doesn't wake? Should we wait until he dies?"
The nurse went pale. Her lips moved but no sound came out. She pressed her hands together tighter.
Valarr stood. Stepped between his uncle and the nurse. Calm, but firm. Just as his father had taught him to stand against Aerion's outbursts. "Uncle. Stop it."
Maekar looked at him. His eyes were fire—anger, fear, helplessness, all mixed together. Valarr continued. "That's not going to happen. Father survived that blow to his head... he'll handle the rest too."
The words were simple. But the reference—to the blow Maekar had struck—hung in the air. Like a dagger plunged into a heart and left there.
The fire in Maekar's eyes died. Turned into something else. Coals that burn under ash and smoke where no one can see. His anger was simply replaced by great sorrow. "I'll never forgive myself for this..." He ran his hands through his hair, which unlike usual wasn't neat and smooth, and sighed quietly.
Valarr gestured for the nurse to move aside. The woman silently retreated, going to the shadows of the room where she couldn't be seen.
Valarr nodded and pressed his lips together with difficulty, convincing himself to say what was morally right. "There's no blame in this story... don't blame yourself, Uncle. I'm sure if Father were awake, he'd tell you the same."
Maekar looked up. His gaze fell on his brother—that pale face, those dry hands, the chest rising and falling slowly. His son had the same foolish kindness and calmness as him.
A smile settled on his lips. A sad smile. A smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You know what's been torturing me from the moment I saw that wound on his head until right now?"
Valarr didn't answer. Just watched. Watched his uncle's hands clench on the edge of the bed. Knuckles white from pressure.
Maekar followed the boy's gaze and looked at his own hands. The same hands that had struck the blow. Clenched them. Opened them. Clenched again. "I don't even remember when I hit him."
His eyes filled with tears. Like the words were stuck in his throat and had to be forced out. "I always remember how many times I struck in every fight, where I struck... but I don't even remember when I destroyed my own brother."
A laugh from deep in his throat. A bitter laugh. A laugh that smelled of tears. "What kind of brother am I..."
He took a deep breath. Like the air was trapped in his chest. "Your father was always so powerful and strong that I never needed to worry about him... He took care of me, took care of my boys' foolishness, Aerion's arrogance, drunken Daeron's mistakes, even Egg's mischief..."
He shook his head. Gently. At himself. "But me... I was so caught up in myself and my problems that in the battle I didn't even ask myself where my brother was, how he was doing... All my mind was on that stubborn boy who'd gotten himself into that duel with that giant Duncan."
Valarr listened patiently. Just like his father. The same patience. The same silence. The same wordless presence that lets the other person empty themselves out.
He heard Maekar's words, but something else circled in his mind: his father had always been like this. Always occupied. Always divided between everyone. Between the realm, between his brother, between his brother's sons, between... everything. Even Valarr hadn't had enough time to grow up beside his father. He'd always had to share his attention with his uncle and cousins and lords and crises.
He had no complaint. Really, he didn't. But if somewhere deep in his heart a complaint was hidden, he was sure that now, under the pressure of this moment, influenced by the fear of losing his father, he was misinterpreting his feelings. So he stayed silent. The same thing his father did. Then he quietly stood up. Placed his hand on his uncle's shoulder. "Don't torment yourself, Uncle... Father's always been stronger than any of us thought."
Maekar smiled. The same sad smile. But this time there was warmth—a little. He raised his hand and touched Valarr's. "You're a good boy, Valarr..."
Valarr removed his hand. His gaze fell on his father—that colorless face that had such beautiful smiles. "And about that knight... Egg was right. He's not to blame."
Maekar rubbed his face. His hand dragged over his tired skin. He closed his eyes and opened them. "Egg's a child."
Valarr had expected this response. "He's a child, but he's right. Ser Duncan fought honorably. In front of all the lords. Killing him..."
He couldn't find the word.
Maekar completed the sentence. "Is a symbol of vengeance."
Valarr corrected the older man. "A symbol of weakness. People will say Targaryens are afraid of justice."
"People can go die. Since when do you care more about people's opinions than avenging your father?" Maekar's words had sharp edges again. He moved away from his nephew and began pacing.
Valarr's hands locked behind his back. He kept his eyes closed against anger because enduring his uncle's sharp tongue right when Baelor's wounded body lay before him was impossible. "If we want justice, we should hold a trial, and with all respect I have for you, Uncle, the accused isn't Ser Duncan."
Maekar's steps stopped. His head turned toward the younger man and he slowly approached him. "Finish your words, boy. If you're angry with me, show it directly, and be sure I'll join you. Because no one is angrier with me than I am with myself."
Both men stared at each other, inches apart. Like a blinking contest, except this fight had no winner. At the sound of a weak groan from Baelor, both men's attention returned to the sickbed. Even the terrified nurse rushed to the sick lord. Baelor Targaryen had woken up—damn that maester's prophecy.
---
The maester whom Lyonel Baratheon had brought with him dressed Dunk's infected wounds. He was still in pain. Both his wounds, and his mind, from the things the lord said to him in his cups.
"You should come to Storm's End with me, man. We'll go hunting together, and I'll teach you how to deal with women so you don't disgrace yourself on your first time." Lyonel was leaning against a tree, stretched out beside Dunk. "I'll love you like my own brother."
Dunk knew the man wasn't lying, but he couldn't accept. He still remembered Lord Baelor's face. The man who'd defended his life in the fighting field just as his son had saved him from the dungeon.
"I can't come... I'm still ashamed before those who died or got hurt because of me." Dunk murmured in a hoarse voice. His breathing was heavy—he didn't know if it was from guilt or the pain of his broken ribs.
Lord Baratheon sighed regretfully. He steadied himself against the tree and stood up to relieve his bladder a few paces away. "I can't believe a Targaryen child has more sense than you. He told me you'd feed me this kind of moral nonsense." Lyonel urinated with a sigh of relief. So close that Dunk could smell the ammonia in the air.
"Did you see him? The boy?" He winced from pain as the maester cut away dead tissue from his wound.
Lyonel finished. Adjusted his clothes and turned back to the knight with the carelessness of a drunk man. "He told me to come find you. Apparently his father's forbidden him from seeing you." Lyonel stood behind the maester and grimaced at the man's ugly wound.
"I knew coming to see me would get him in trouble... Ah. This pain is killing me." Dunk squeezed his eyes shut from the pain, his voice raspy, but he didn't move.
The maester cut away the last of the dead flesh with his dagger, ignoring the knight's pained groan. "I've cut away the rotten flesh... only one step remains." He turned his head to look at the lord he served. "I need alcohol, my lord. Unfortunately I forgot to bring it with my supplies."
Lyonel's gaze was still twisted in disgust. He cursed under his breath and held out the drink in his hand toward the maester. "Perfect. I'm not touching it now anyway." He turned his face away from Dunk's ugly wound so he wouldn't witness the man's pain while it was cleaned. "Your little Targaryen really loves you, but this time he didn't get in trouble because of his own mischief. I've heard from friends about servants whispering about Prince Maekar and Valarr, Baelor's son, arguing."
Despite the hisses of pain escaping through his teeth, Dunk's ears focused on Lyonel's words. The lord began pacing on the grass beneath his feet. His yellow cloak billowed behind him in the air. "Even though Prince Valarr has ordered your release, and Prince Maekar has forbidden Egg from seeing you... the servants' whispers don't seem far from logic."
Dunk grabbed the maester's hand for a moment to stop his torture, needing to focus to understand Lord Baratheon's words. "What does a Targaryen quarrel have to do with me and Egg?"
Lyonel's steps halted. A sick smirk appeared on his lips. "Seems you haven't heard about the dance of the dragons, my friend... The Targaryens' party has started, and a great war is coming." He shrugged indifferently. "Believe me. A Baratheon can smell chaos from leagues away."
Lyonel Baratheon was right. A few hundred meters away, behind the cold stone walls of the castle, chaos was unfolding.
Baelor Targaryen had regained consciousness. He was surrounded by a crowd of maesters, healers, alchemists, apothecaries—anyone Maekar thought could help. A little distance from the medical gathering stood his son Valarr. News of his improvement had reached Egg and Daeron too; the two brothers stood beside their cousin, watching the chaos and commotion caused by the comings and goings of maesters and servants. Maekar hovered near his brother like a moth around flame. Baelor's first awakening had lasted only seconds. He'd come to in the middle of his son and brother's argument, and his eyes hadn't stayed open long enough for him to hear Maekar's shout summoning the maester. The second time he woke, the maester was leaning over him, burning a bundle of mountain herbs beneath his nose to rouse him again.
The first thing he saw was his son's tear-streaked face. The poor boy had thought he'd lost his father. He pulled the child to his chest and stroked the white streak shining in his brown hair.
His brother Maekar stared at him. With a shocked look, like he was dreaming. Baelor tried to say something to him, but his tongue was heavy in his mouth, and weeping Valarr's weight on his chest made breathing difficult. When the maester respectfully asked Prince Valarr to move away from the heir's chest, Maekar snapped out of his shock and, placing his hand on the boy's shoulder, pulled him from his father's chest into his own embrace. His gaze still fixed on his injured brother. A guilty, shame-filled gaze. Baelor was too exhausted to answer the maester. It took a few hours for the heir's speech to slowly return. Now he could answer the maesters' questions. He also managed to reach his hand toward his brother and draw his attention.
Feeling Baelor's hand, Maekar leaned forward to hear his brother's request to dismiss the physicians. Clearing out that many servants and specialists wasn't difficult. Maekar blamed himself for exhausting his brother by crowding the room. He poured the anger at his own mistake into his voice as he dismissed the maesters and nurses.
He didn't know how he looked from the outside, but he could see silent judgment in the eyes of the children waiting in the corner of the room. Did he seem mad? Had he frightened the children? Had he frightened his brother? He stared at Baelor's face with terror, searching for any trace of his mistake in that man's tired eyes... but Baelor was calm.
Ignoring the small show his brother had put on to clear the room, he gestured weakly for the children to come closer. They'd been through dark days and looked as disheveled as Maekar. "How is your brother?" He asked, not seeing Aerion with the others. His voice was as soft and trembling as a stream.
Maekar answered for them. "He's fine. The maesters have dealt with the danger. Focus on your own recovery, brother."
Apparently all the children agreed with him. Baelor smiled sadly and closed his tired eyes. He missed this gathering. He missed this family... but the room's light was too bright and his eyelids were heavy. "Calm down, Maekar. You might be powerful, but I'm not going to die that easily."
"But you almost died, Father." Valarr's voice was still choked with tears. "I was beside you the whole time and saw how your skin went cold and pale. I saw your breaths grow short and your heartbeat slow." Now tears glistened in Egg and Daeron's eyes too, though Baelor's closed eyes couldn't see them.
"But I'm still here... and I'm fine, see?" Baelor's tone was like he was fooling a small child. Strange how even these obviously untrue words calmed Valarr's heart. "I'm sorry for worrying you... no father should worry his sons like this." The man's eyes opened and stared directly at Valarr. "Why don't you go to your rooms and rest a little?" His voice was fading.
Seeing the weakness in his brother's broken voice, Maekar rose and moved toward the children. "That's right, you all need rest, and so does your uncle." He placed his hand on Daeron's shoulder and fixed his eyes on Valarr. "I'll watch over him. If anything changes, you'll be the first to know."
Valarr looked at his father uncertainly, and their gazes met. Baelor still seemed powerful, calm, and steady, and the boy feared that all this... was just his father pretending to be strong.
Baelor, as if reading his son's mind, smiled reassuringly at him. "That's right, even I need rest. Besides, I need to have a private talk with Uncle Maekar. I'm sure you children wouldn't be interested in hearing about matters of the realm... take your time and rest a little." Even Egg knew his uncle was trying to calm them; they were always encouraged to hear and learn about the problems of the realm and its people.
"You heard what the boss said. Get your asses to your rooms quickly and get some sleep." Maekar accompanied them to the wooden door and ushered the reluctant children out of the room.
When he turned back to his brother, Baelor's eyes were closed and his breathing had quieted. Maekar stared at him in silence. Assuming he'd fallen asleep, he moved to the table by the window. He filled a glass halfway with wine and walked slowly back to the wooden chair. After a whole day, this wine was all he'd consumed. He swirled the red liquid in his glass and stared at its gentle dance. Lost in his thoughts.
"I can't feel my legs."
The sound of Baelor's weak voice was covered by the crash of the glass hitting the floor.
Doubtful of what he'd heard, Maekar asked hesitantly, "What?"
Baelor's eyes were still closed. "I didn't tell the maesters the truth. I didn't want the children to hear... I can't feel my legs." He was so calm. So calm it was as if he were discussing something random, like which sword oil was better or how many bastards the lords had.
Maekar blinks in shock. A long silence dominates the space. The spilled wine leaves a dark trail between the cracks in the flagstones. Maekar's hysterical laughter mixes with the ugly sound of his chair legs scraping against the stone.
The tall man rises from his place, places his hand on his brother's bed, and circles around it while trying to control his nervous laughter. His long fingers move over the sheets and slip under Baelor's blanket. They settle right on his brother's bare calf. "You can't be sure... it might be a temporary injury."
He feels his brother's stare on his face but doesn't lift his head. He moves his hand caressingly over Baelor's trained muscles and soft skin. "So you feel nothing now, brother?"
Baelor, as if he'd expected this reaction, answers firmly but calmly, "I feel nothing."
Maekar's fingers dig into the flesh of Baelor's leg. He was furious, but his face showed nothing. "Even now?" His sharp nails were scratching Baelor's unblemished skin.
"I feel nothing." His leg had no feeling, but his heart ached. The bitter taste of terror filled his mouth. His voice was still calm, but there was a slight tremor in it. Facing this reality was as hard for him as it was for Maekar.
This crack... pulled Maekar into a world beyond his anger and guilt. If he was feeling horrified, surely his brother was experiencing something many times worse.
He pulled his hand out from under the blanket and placed it on the white sheets. A faint trace of skin and blood was visible under his sharp nails. Something turned in Maekar's stomach. If he'd eaten anything, he surely would have brought it up. He had scratched his brother's skin and drawn blood. It felt strange, hurting Baelor and the man not even feeling it. The man who had been his role model his entire life. The man his father was proud of and wished Maekar could be a little like. Maekar felt disgusted and powerful at the same time.
He wiped his fingers on the sheets, trying to wipe away the bloodstain like a stain of guilt from his hands. "This is foolish. It must be temporary." He moved toward the door. "I'll call the maester. Either your numbness is temporary, or his life becomes temporary."
"Maekar..." The prince's footsteps stopped when he heard his brother's voice. Baelor continued, "The people don't want two sick kings... you know that." Maekar knew it.
Ever since their father had been on his deathbed, the people had seen their heir, Baelor Breakspear, as their sovereign. Baelor's worry wasn't about losing his own physical ability, but about losing their rule's legitimacy. The people wouldn't accept another man as king... and Maekar wasn't a legitimate king because he wasn't as good as Baelor.
Baelor sighs softly and folds his hands on his chest. His lifeless gaze, with pupils of different colors, stares at the wall before him. "We can't trust every maester. At least for a while..." He turned his head toward his brother and stared at him with a knowing look. "We both know what the real purpose of this tournament was, brother."
The purpose of the tournament was entertainment. Distraction and entertainment to create unity between houses. Maekar knew this; in fact, it was his own plan. With slumped shoulders, he ran his hand through his hair and gripped it for a few seconds.
Baelor, seeing his brother's silence, tried harder to convince him. "The Blackfyre rebellion was neutralized... they were exiled, but their allies are still in Westeros." Maekar began pacing, but Baelor didn't stop talking. "House Peake doesn't even hide their opposition. They're waiting for a reason to rebel, and with this physical condition... I can't fight them a second time."
Maekar, without stopping his nervous pacing, said sharply, "You don't have to fight those bastard Peakes, brother..." He stopped and gestured toward his brother. "You're not moving from your place. I'll find a solution for this."
Baelor didn't intend to laugh, but Maekar always made him laugh; his brother had been his personal fool since childhood. He smirked. "You think you'll find a solution for my paralysis? Will you carry me on your back?"
Baelor's words weren't accusatory, but Maekar still felt guilty. With a serious look, he stepped forward and knelt beside his brother's bed, like a knight. "If I have to, I will."
This time, Baelor smiled, warm and soft without any smirk. His smile gave Maekar the courage to continue. "And yes... I'll find a solution for it." He took Baelor's hand, just as he'd done when he was unconscious. "I don't want your place, brother... just as the people don't want me on Father's throne. You're right... we can't let them find out." He stared into his brother's eyes and softly pressed his lips to the back of his hand. "From now on, this is our secret. Until we can reveal it."
Baelor knew this idea wasn't practical... but the gods had kept him alive for a reason. This secret wouldn't stay hidden for long, this rule wouldn't remain with the Targaryens forever, but as long as his secret was hidden and his legitimacy stood, he had a chance to make the right decisions and secure powerful supporters for his family. With slight confusion, he asked, "I forgot to ask... where is Ser Duncan?"
And Maekar's eyebrows rose at this irrelevant question.
---
At that moment, Ser Duncan was lying under a large tree, staring at the clouds moving through the branches. He'd refused Lyonel Baratheon's offer to accompany him. He'd said goodbye to Raymun and his wife—who'd apparently gotten pregnant overnight—and had gone to see Egg, but the guards turned him away on Prince Maekar's orders. So when they came for him and brought him before that man, he was surprised... and when he entered the room and saw Baelor conscious, he found the answers to the questions in his mind. The one who'd summoned him was Lord Baelor himself. Dunk had to admit he'd rather be questioned by Maekar than receive kindness from Baelor; he didn't deserve this warmth.
"We won the fight, Ser Duncan." Baelor said in a livelier tone. The medicines and liquid food had returned some energy to him, and his face looked less like a corpse.
"Thanks to you, my lord..." Dunk murmured. His head was lowered, trying to make himself look smaller, just as Lord Baratheon had told him not to do.
Baelor gestured for him to sit on the chair. With that height, standing in the corner of the room, he looked like a child who'd lost his mother. "There was no favor... we fought fairly and won fairly." He continued with a slight laugh in his voice, "And with a bit of luck, of course."
Dunk looked at the injured lord in the bed. The stitches on his head were dressed but still very visible. "You were hurt. People died. We weren't very lucky, my lord."
Baelor was silent. As if he'd expected such a response. "We all die someday, Ser Duncan... we just haven't reached the battle we lose yet." He stroked his short beard. "You owe no debt to anyone, if that's what's bothering you. I summoned you to make that clear."
Baelor's words were calming but not comforting. Dunk still felt guilty. He felt like he was on the wrong path. Maybe that's why Ser Arlan never knighted him. He didn't deserve it. "If something had happened to you, I could never forgive myself, ser. Just as I feel that way about the other friends I've lost."
Dunk leaned on his wooden crutch—a tree branch—and rose to kneel before his lord. "I don't deserve the position of a knight, my lord, that's why I can't offer you my service, but I sincerely apologize to you and will do anything to make amends—"
Baelor interrupted Dunk with irritation. "Please rise, young knight." He gestured to the servant to refill the glass of water on the table for him, and meanwhile watched Dunk's attempt to return to his chair. "I can't change your mind about the debt you feel... or convince you that like many sworn knights of House Targaryen, you too deserve loyalty to a house."
Dunk stared at the prince with curious eyes. He returned his water glass to its place and continued, "But I can ask you to do me a favor."
The younger man rose without a moment's hesitation and answered with a firm voice, "Whatever you wish, my lord."
Baelor smiled softly. Why couldn't this boy stay still in his chair for a moment? He was clearly in pain, but his face remained hard and steady. "I know my nephew Egg has a particular fondness for you." He paused slightly. "And I know you've had adventures with that boy... I wanted you to take him as your squire."
Dunk fell into thought. His hand played with the corner of his old clothes, his gaze fixed on the ground. "Egg will always have a home with me, my lord... your brother had forbidden us from seeing each other."
Baelor nodded in confirmation. He'd heard the story from Valarr. "I'll speak with my brother... and the request I have for you isn't limited to Egg."
Things had become complicated. Dunk knew that coming to the castle would inevitably bring up the matter of Egg, but he hadn't expected anything more than this. "As I said... whatever you wish, I'd be honored to carry out."
Baelor's smile deepened this time. This simple-hearted knight had no idea what he was agreeing to. "This proves your honor, Ser Duncan the Tall... I ask you to take, alongside my little nephew Egg, his elder brother Aerion as your squire as well."
A few rooms away, the sick Prince Aerion was sweating in his bed. He woke with a start, terrified, and returned to reality as his gaze swept the room. Between his panting breaths, he murmured, "What the fuck was that nightmare." He ran his hand over his head and, unaware of his life's new nightmare, fell back asleep.